


a resting place for weary men

by sombregods



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal, Class Differences, Class Issues, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracies, M/M, Political Debates, Power Imbalance, Reverse power imbalance, Rivalry, cocksucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sombregods/pseuds/sombregods
Summary: London, 1889. The newly widowed Duke of Carlisle, burdened with the task of managing the steel factories his late husband owned, entertains an unexpected nighttime visitor.





	a resting place for weary men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/gifts).



_London, 1889._

 

Harsh blows thundered against the front door.

Startled out of his correspondence, Lucian started to his feet, and let go his fountain pen, which rolled away between letters and ledgers, and was lost. At a glance at the darkened window he saw how late the hour had got: he had worked long past dinnertime, as had become his habit of late—there was simply too, too much to be done, too, too few hours in the day. A thin, icy rain beat against the windowpanes, and the sky was storm-dark. Here and there in the gas glow vague figures were illuminated—a horse, a cab, a man—then fell back in the thickening fog.

The knocking came again, harder; each of the loud blows echoed strangely, as bellows in a cathedral. Norton must be down in his pantry. At last Lucian heard his servant's slow and shuffling tread, his shambling up the stairs with some difficulty.

The great oak door was opened. Then raised voices—one voice, drowning out Norton's protests, furious and familiar. Lucian's heart was beating a wild beat. He heard his name—muttered dissent—a scornful laugh. Then the library door, too, was thrown wide.

The man at the door was by far taller, by far stronger than poor Norton, who, nonetheless, cast himself bodily in his way.

"My Lord!" Norton gasped.

"My Lord!" echoed Abel Dawson, contemptuously. He looked thunderous.

"My Lord," Norton persisted. "Apologies—I could not—" He was firmly put aside.

Lucian leaned back against his desk. He sighed, and dug his hands in his pockets. "Let him in, Norton."

Dawson gave him a long, amused look, and divested himself of Norton's grasping hands. "My Lord's orders," he said, but oddly, gently, in his very deep voice. "Shoo."

"But—your Grace—this man—"

"—is no danger to me," said Lucian, dryly. "Do you imagine he hides explosives under his coat? I shouldn't think so. You may retire for tonight, Norton. I shall see the gentleman out."

Norton puffed up enormously, and then, less impressively, deflated. He folded up his hands, said, with resentment: "As you wish, my Lord." Then shuffled out, scowling, no doubt to complain to Cook of ungrateful, inexplicable masters. The door closed with a soft sound behind him, and then, at last, they were alone.

"I do wish you took better care of my doors, Mr. Dawson."

Dawson grinned at him, and executed a mocking bow. "Your Grace's doors could endure an armed assault."

"They have done so. Nevertheless," said Lucian, "they are very much older than the two of us combined, and so, I hope, deserve our respect."

Dawson, not easily cowed, dropped down into an armchair, and crossed his legs. He had, Lucian observed dourly, not had the common courtesy of changing out of his workclothes: woolen coat, stained shirt, heavy trousers. A red kerchief was tied round his neck. He saw him looking, and his smile grew. "Well?"

"Well."

"Do you know why I'm here, my Lord?"

"I've not the slightest idea."

"No?" Dawson's eyes were dark and grave. "That's mighty fine."

The previous Duke of Carlisle, Lucian reflected ruefully, would have had a sad fit of the vapours, had a worker presumed to address him in this fashion. But then his father had scorned the very notion of employing factory workers, let alone—perish the thought—of owning a factory. He had found it far easier to bequeath that particular indignity unto his son, along with that of marrying a self-made upstart three times his age, who had, nevertheless, a great deal of investment money to his name, and would be compelled to settle most of his estate on his young widowed spouse. A neat trick. _Lucian_ must undergo the sacrifice. The Dukedom remained unscathed.

No: it was down to Lucian, then, to marry again, and to find an heir: to restore to its former glory the great estate of Carlisle, with the riches another man had made off the backs of his workers. That had been the plan.

His father had not contended with men like Abel Dawson, who cared not a whit for the legacy of the Carlisle line, and fought only for a little more warmth, a little more bread, a little more rest. He had not contended with an union in revolt; nor, it was true, with the possibility that his only surviving son might be tempted to throw all away for the pleasure of a night in that man's arms.

"You will have to be more specific in your complaint," said Lucian, at last.

"Four dozen of your workers lost their jobs a fortnight ago," said Abel Dawson, in a dangerous voice.

"Oh?"

"You don't know." Now: disbelief. "Worst layoffs in a decade, and the Lord and Master _does not know_."

Dawson was a handsome man: dark-eyed, dark-haired, his great brows furrowed, his mouth pursed. He had broad, expansive shoulders, made strong with long sweat-soaked hours of labour. He was handsomer in anger, in his rightful outrage.

"Layoffs are a matter of course," Lucian said, "when the industry is in decline," and heard the hateful distance in his voice. That, too, he had inherited from his forebears: generations and generations of disregard, of scorn and class hauteur.

"That's no matter," said Dawson, bluntly, and stood, staring at Lucian for a moment longer. "You've a _duty_."

"Enough of one."

"Do you! Then are you not owed to observe it—my Lord!"

"Mr. Dawson," said Lucian, with a patience he scarcely felt, "you have no knowing in the observation of my duties. Pray do not presume to imagine you do."

He saw Dawson take that in: a palpable, brunt force. "Perhaps," he said. He looked, for a moment, as though he might wish to reach out and touch him. But he crossed his arms over his chest, instead; the motion drew the fabric tight around his biceps, and Lucian's gaze, inevitably, was drawn to the firm line of his forearms, the flat strong fingers wrapped around his elbows.

He recovered himself. He strove for clarity. "You've proper channels of protest, have you not?"

"Oh, aye—and so we do. Yes, my Lord, we strike, and we picket. We unionize. Your kind calls us insurgents! And yet we deserve lawful employment, and we mean to have it."

"Lawful employment, perhaps. That is not of a certainty _permanent_ employment."

The fury leapt back in the young man's face. And he was young—two or four years, perhaps, older than Lucian. "What do you call laying off a quarter of your workforce when you've nothing to show for it? In fact the industry is not failing; ours is not, anyhow. Our work is good. The metal holds. We've orders in for steel and for iron enough to feed two hundred families, if you so wish." He had begun to pace: but always his dark shining eyes returned to Lucian, and his hands clenched themselves into fists. Lucian thought he might want to feel those hands—those strong, mobile hands—on him—his hips, his arms, his neck. Dawson looked as though he might do anything.

"And yet—" He bit back on a curse. "And yet: the layoffs. Here is the truth. They make no sense. There is no economic logic in them, except one—that the masters want only a little pocket money, a little more and a little more each day, and they've no choice but to make it on the backs of their workers. What do you say to that, my Lord?"

"I—" Lucian chose his words with care. "Have you proof the layoffs were unfair?"

"They invented charges," said Dawson. "Unlawful fighting—harm to the machinery—none of it true. These men have families. They've children. They've roofs to shelter them, and must find food to feed them."

"I daresay you have disputed the charges."

Dawson shrugged, an awful, hopeless motion. "What can we do, my Lord, but strike?"

"Have you?"

"We will."

"And this—is, what? A call of warning. Kind of you! Might I not now go to the board, and report what you have told me?"

"No," said Dawson, eyes quite dark. "I don't think you will, my Lord."

Lucian looked up at him. One of them moved, then, or both, perhaps: but a moment later the small of his back hit the desk, and he caught Dawson's face between his hands and dragged his mouth down to his mouth. Dawson made a sound like a shot deer and grasped at him, yanked him close until they were chest to chest, kissing so hungrily they noticed neither the overturned chair nor the papers that spilled to the floor. Dawson's hand was rough on his neck, holding his head in place; Dawson's mouth was hot, hot as all hell, and furious, pressing open kisses against him, his thigh sliding between Lucian's thighs. His thumb brushed against Lucian's lips, which parted, and slid inside—

Lucian bit down, and Dawson said—

"Christ." Then kissed him again, ardently. "Oh. Oh, fuck."

He was hard, too, pressing urgently against Lucian, slipping his hand down round to his arse, digging in the flesh there. Lucian gasped, and lost his fingers in the thick black curls, urging him up for another kiss, and then another, their mouths only just parting, Dawson's tongue swiping against his bottom lip before he bit down. A great uproar was building in Lucian's chest. His heart— _dear god_ —was pounding so harshly that Dawson, stealing huge, breathless kisses, must surely, surely be able to hear it.

They scrambled back onto the desk, uncaring of the chaos: a bronze paperweight crashing to the floor, and the pages of the heavy factory ledgers crackling underneath their combined weight. Their mouths met again, again. They were unwilling to separate for long. When Dawson's grasp tightened at Lucian's waist Lucian bowed his back, and slid both hands around his neck, tangled them up in his hair, and wrapped his legs around his hips.

Dawson groaned, then swore under his breath. He gripped the lapel of Lucian's waistcoat, quite roughly, tugged it open, and splayed his hand underneath, over the skin-warm fabric of his shirt. Lucian shuddered, all over.

Dawson's mouth nudged against his ear. "I want—"

"Me too," Lucian gasped, feeling the pressure of the moment build up in his chest so high he might have come right then, without more than a touch.

Trousers. They had no time for exploration: buttons undone, the cool buckle of Dawson's belt, the rough texture of his trousers, and, underneath, smooth silken skin, hard and hot. Lucian worked his hand around him. Christ, he was already wet.

Dawson hissed. His hips jerked. "Oh," he said, and kissed him again, roughly, without apprehension or care. His hand was tight on Lucian's waist, holding him still, holding him, in fact, so powerfully still that he might as well be a statue—an object for Dawson's desire, the owner of the hand that worked him, and nothing more.

It should not—it should not have made Lucian feel warm, calm—like ownership felt. He had been owned before, by men older and more powerful than he; his husband's death, though unremarkable, had come with such relief, such desperate happiness, that he would never, he knew, again succumb to such a bond. His husband may rot in hell. His father probably did, too; and Lucian was free of them both.

And still he wanted to be held down. Pinned down. Fucked.

Dawson nipped at his jaw, cradling his cheek in his hand, and pulled away. He stared down at Lucian, for a long, fearless moment, before he hauled him up and on his feet—and then, unspeaking, pushed him down. On his knees.

Lucian went easily and without a word.

"Suck me."

 _God_. He wanted to. That was the worst of it: the desperate truth inside of him—he wanted it. Dawson's cock was large enough that he might choke on it. He had before. He hoped he would again.

Still. He stroked him, once, then twice, getting him nice and wet; and then leaned in and wrapped his mouth around the soft, slick head of his cock. It tasted musky, hot, oddly bitter, and when he placed both hands on Dawson's thighs and forced his jaw a little wider, took more of him down, flattening his tongue against the underside, he felt the great body above him shake.

Lucian swallowed around him, and Dawson swallowed back a curse. His fingers touched Lucian's face, and traced the open o of his lips tight around his dick, wrapping around his throat. It made him choke—made him moan, and pull in closer, digging his fingers in Dawson's thighs, pulling himself tight up against his body. Dawson let him work for a long, long minute. He said nothing, but breathed softly, wetly, and touched his face with a strange reverence.

The clock rang, slowly, one by one, the ten hours of the evening. At the last stroke, Dawson gripped his hand in his hair and hauled him away, ungently. Lucian, throat raw, swallowed around nothing and looked up at him, and found Dawson hard-eyed and wild-looking, bracing himself back against the desk. Lucian licked his lips, and bent again to press a kiss, open-mouthed, against the crown of his cock; to lap gently at the slit. Dawson was shaking.

"Enough." His voice was hoarse. But he didn't move him—he stared down at him, cradling his face in both hands, watching Lucian open his lips around the head of his prick; watching him take it slowly, inch by inch, until Lucian closed his eyes and sank all the way down.

"Fuck!" This time the curse echoed. Lucian moaned in approval, sucked a little harder, then pulled off, coughing.

"My Lord," murmured Dawson, looking down at him. There was affection in his voice, a strange note, which struck Lucian in the chest. Dawson's thumb traced his mouth, pushing down upon his swollen lower lip. "Little cocksucker."

Lucian shuddered.

"You like that."

"I want you," said Lucian, in his roughened voice. "To—fuck me."

"Could do," said Dawson, lazily. "Why should I, though?" Sprawled half back upon Lucian's ancestor desk, legs spread, his cock thick and wet, with most of his clothes on, he looked rough, he looked dangerous; like a man Lucian might have met in an alley down by the docks, a factory man looking for a sweet mouth or a harsh fuck against a grimy wall. Looking for a swell who wanted taming.

Lucian knelt back upon his heels. "Shall I beg for it?"

A hum. "That's not a bad idea." But then, before the thought could do more than send a ripple of heat through Lucian's veins: "Not tonight, though. Come here." He helped him up in a fashion of gallantry that felt at once chivalrous and insulting. He kissed Lucian immediately, open-mouthed, and, kissing him, made short work of his cravat, his laces, his waistcoat. The shirt he dragged off his shoulders. Lucian stepped out of his trousers and underthings, and stood, naked, in none but the warmth of the fire, as Dawson cupped his neck in his hands and stroked down to his pectorals, his sides, the hollows of his hipbones. He closed his eyes. He let him touch.

"Come on," Dawson murmured at last. With uncommon solicitude he pushed him back down against the desk. Down, his hand at the nape of his neck, and Lucian went down down down—let himself be manhandled, be arranged against the smooth maplewood, and shuddered under the caressing fingers that brushed from his neck down to the swell of his arse. Dawson gave him a perfunctory slap, then stepped away. "Don't move."

Lucian pillowed his head upon his arms, and looked back, eyes half-shut, lazily, as Dawson contemplated their options. Then, shrugging, he removed coat and vest, and set about to roll up his sleeves.

"Oil?"

"Not here."

Dawson grinned at him. "Not many late-night visitors?"

"Not lately," Lucian admitted. "Nothing since—two months ago."

Dawson's eyes darkened. They both remembered two months ago. No; there had been no need of oil then; Dawson had fucked his mouth and then fucked his thighs, and Lucian had been glad he had thought to give his staff the afternoon off. They had no such safety now. If Norton thought of seeing whether the visitor had left—

"No matter," said Dawson shortly. "We'll make do. Stay quiet."

By way of spit they made do. Dawson, having locked the door, took sweet, sweet time. He had Lucian trembling underneath him, one leg brought up to expose himself—fingered him for a quarter hour, two, until Lucian felt that he might as easily shatter as he might come, until he was so hard that his prick frotted up against the desk every time Dawson's fingers shifted and jabbed inside of him, until he broke and said: " _Abel_ —"

Dawson took in a breath behind him. Then the fingers eased out. Lucian leaned his head against his forearm, and tried to breathe. He felt so empty.

The blunt press of Dawson's cock against his hole was almost pain, almost sweet. Dawson stroked his hands up his hips, held him quite firm, held him down against the desk. Legs pushed open. He pushed in in one long, long motion, but slowly, as though—Lucian peered over his shoulder, to see—he was watching himself press in. He was. Dawson's left hand was braced against the small of his back, holding him open.

God. He was—large. Not unnaturally so; but Lucian had not the experience to compare him to many other men. He felt big. By the time Dawson bottomed out, with a very deep groan, Lucian was shaking, his hands clenching around the upper side of his desk—paperwork was sticking to his bare, sweaty skin, and letters of note and bills that ought to be paid were scattered underneath them. Dawson pressed a hot kiss against his shoulderblades, edged out just far enough to feel it, and pushed back in.

"Christ," he breathed. Another thrust. Another. The pace increased infinitesimally. He was making them long and good, leaning low against Lucian's back, and grasping the desk over his head, to gain the momentum he needed: his hips met Lucian's arse with a heavy slap, every time, his cock driving hard into him.

"You look—"

"Mmm?"

"Good," Dawson said, very low. "Like a dockside slattern."

"Oh," said Lucian, and then: "Don't _stop_!" as the rhythm slackened. Dawson took a long pause and then pushed out almost entirely and then slid back in, slow and lovely. Lucian gasped—and lost his breath; set his forehead down against the desk and took it all, as Dawson grasped his hips and fucked him hard, good, heavy thrusts that drove him half-mad with joy, pleasure so deep he might have wept. Holding him down—the weight and warmth of him, his skin against Lucian's sweaty back, the rough burr of his chest hair, the solidity of his thighs against Lucian's thighs—Dawson couldn't stop touching him. His hands splayed over the breadth of his shoulders, the long lines of his arms, the dip of his spine. He took a grip in his hair and gave him only the tip, circling his hole, slickly, edging him on, until Lucian was ready to beg.

"Should have done this months ago," he panted above him, when Lucian was helpless to do anything but take it and sometimes moan. Lucian made a half-sound, muffled against his arm.

"When you first came to the factory," Dawson said. His voice was a little rough, a little frantic. "When I saw you—when any one of us saw you—could have fucked you right there. Wanted to."

"I—ah!—I wish that you had," Lucian gasped, and though the words came mangled and torn Dawson must have understood his meaning. He breathed an omen before his pace tightened, quickened, became sharper and shallower, and then he became utterly focused—gave him one, two, three, _four_ thrusts that shook Lucian so deep he felt it in his lungs, and came inside him with a strangled groan.

Lucian saw nothing—heard nothing—for a few long seconds—but when his vision returned he was still, impossibly, improbably, hard, his sore, sensitive prick rutting against the surface of his desk. His hips jerked, seeking inescapable friction; but Dawson's weight was heavy across his back, and his hand was still gripping Lucian's hair, pinning him down. Dawson was breathing in very slow, deliberate breaths.

The sweet, sweet pain of it—the mounting pleasure, hopelessly frustrated—was unspeakable. Dawson's mouth opened against his shoulder, murmuring words he could not hear. He started to pull out, and as the pressure inside Lucian eased he felt the soft trickle of Dawson's come, leaking out of his hole, trickling down his thigh.

"Oh," said Lucian, thunderstruck, and made to jerk one hand down and underneath him, seeking his own cock.

"Ah—ahh, none of that," Dawson murmured. His arm was caught and held down. The fingers of his other hand trailed down his back, awakening streams of light.

"Please," Lucian moaned, half-mad with the helpless joy of it—the almost-there, the near-climax—and Dawson said:

"Don't move."

He moved away.

Lucian swallowed, and closed his eyes. The loss of Dawson's warmth and weight was unbearable. But he did not go far: a moment later there came the gentle press of his fingers against the inside of his thigh; Dawson slowly parted the cheeks of his arse, and stroked one thumb over his hole—caught the dribbling come between his fingertips. He made a half-sound of inquiry—"Hm."—and then—

" _Oh_."

Dawson cleaned him up softly, long, slow swathes of his tongue stroking up the length of his crease, lapping up his own come. Lucian trembled and trembled.

"Abel—oh. Don't stop."

"Hmm," Dawson said again, though now with some amusement, and he rubbed the knuckles of his hand against his hole, almost fondly, before he said: "Turn over."

Lucian was walking on sea-legs. But he rolled over, well enough, and Dawson fitted between his thighs perfectly, roughing him up, gathering him up, until Lucian weakly leaned his arms around his neck and kissed him back, tasting him in it, tasting—dear god—himself; and let Dawson wrap his hand round him and gently, gently work him off, his callused skin rough against the sensitive crown of his prick—a slow, growing desire that started low and deep, started in his gut, and gathered in his groin, higher and higher with every second, and sweeter, so, so much sweeter, until, finally, _finally_ , he felt himself, as though from on high, starting to come—and come. Dawson worked him through it, unceasing, even after the pleasure ebbed away and became friction just on this side of pain.

Lucian held on to him.

He held on even as Dawson lifted him up, and—though Lucian was too tall to be carried—helped him walk to the fireplace rug. Their mouths met again. The rug was pleasantly rough against his skin. Dawson braced himself atop him and framed his head between his hands, kissing him quite tender.

 

 

 

The Duke of Carlisle made faces when he dozed.

Bright curls fell over his brow. Half-asleep, he looked painfully young. Abel leaned over, his chin upon his fist, tracing the proud mouth, the straight nose, carefully, with the backs of his fingers. Carlisle scrunched up his brow at the touch, made a sound like an unhappy puppy, and then awoke, but gently, gently, his fair eyelashes shadowing the pale grey of his eyes. Abel hummed, and caressed the long line of his jaw, stroked up to the shell of his ear under the mass of gold.

Carlisle blinked hazily up at him. He lay upon his back, his skin pale against the dark fur of the rug; one of his hand was swept up over his head, and the other rested, quite unconsciously, against Abel's chest. It took a moment before he seemed to remember himself. But he did—and, doing so, frowned, nose crunching, and levered himself into a sitting position. He slung his arm over his knees and said nothing, staring into the fire.

Abel sighed, and lay back. His thighs felt pleasantly sore. His entire body, in fact, felt as though he had been working for a fortnight without rest.

Sex with Carlisle was … different. Illuminating. It was nothing like Abel had ever known—with anyone else; not even with the swells who sometimes slummed it round the docks, looking for entertainment and a meat pie and a bit of rough. They were distant, mindless creatures, who one took to bed in the small hours when one had drunk too much brown ale, and who sometimes thought to leave coin on the headboard, as though they could not fathom exchanging pleasure for pleasure.

Carlisle was young, dynamic, unhappy. Abel had thought him a proud, pompous toff, first time old Appleton had had him tour the factory. A pretty creature, sure, who had married into the wealth his forebears had squandered, but hardly one to watch out for: the figurehead of a bankrupt aristocracy on the brink of sunset. He had been ill-dressed for the factory floor. Machine-grease had smudged his smooth polished boots and steam had stained the white of his cravat. Then he had looked at Abel, when the union leaders had demanded an introduction. He had said—

"How do you do?"

—politely, and, of all things, held out his fawn-gloved hand to shake. Abel had wanted him so badly he could shake. He might have taken him there, in front of his mates, in front of Carlisle's husband.

"This was a mistake," Carlisle said now. Abel opened his eyes again. The fire limned Carlisle's naked back, the swell of his shoulder—the curve of his arm. He had leaned his head upon his wrist, and was looking down at him.

"So you always say," said Abel.

"It's always true. I wish you would stop coming."

"Do you."

Carlisle was silent. He seemed sad. But he reached down to touch Abel's palm. "What do you imagine my associates would say, should they discover what we do?"

"It won't happen."

"It may," said Carlisle frankly. "Twice already I have betrayed a deeper intimacy with you than I ought to have. And they are skittish—they dislike the union extremely, and will look for any excuse to discredit you. Or me."

"Is that so?" said Abel, dangerously. "Then put your mind to this, your Lordship: in two days' time we plan to strike. A general one, mind: steel workers, and dock workers, and mill workers, and every single poor soul who's been battered down and trounced by the masters. We'll hold out in the factories, and we'll not let down. Call it mutiny; _they_ will. But we've force on our side." He cupped Carlisle's face, pulled him close. Carlisle's mouth was frowning. "Now. You've the information they want. What will you do with it, your Grace? Betray me?"

"Don't look to me for a saviour," said Carlisle, in a low voice, and his hands fell away. He pulled himself out of Abel's embrace and got to his feet. "I imagine you may show yourself out. You must know the way now."

Without a word, Abel pulled on his clothes. He ached for some of that gentler, tender touch they had briefly indulged in, and the fabric of his shirt felt coarsely wrong over his skin. Carlisle put himself to rights, shrugging on his waistcoat over a half-buttoned shirt, buttoning those fine Bond Street trousers, and lingered by the desk, his fingers trailing through papers and letters. He didn't look at Abel. His shoulders were tense, pulled high together.

Abel found his cap and coat. He briefly wondered what to say, if anything at all. It was not the first time Carlisle had so summarily dismissed him. It would not, likely, be the last.

"Goodnight," he said at last, for lack of anything else.

He was at the door when Carlisle said: "I will come by the factory tomorrow."

Abel paused with one hand on the doorknob. Looked back. Carlisle was, still, half-turned away, but his profile was gilt in the firelight, sad and proud and so lonely-looking Abel felt it in his chest like a blow.

"I may," Carlisle said, slowly, to the fire, "take a great deal of interest in the company ledgers."

Abel swallowed. "Alright," he said, and at last Carlisle looked at him—a swift, brilliant glance, like an arrow through the head, like a hand at the throat.

"Goodnight to your Lordship," Abel said, falling back upon gentle mockery, and Carlisle smiled that strange smile of his and said:

"Mr. Dawson. Safe journey."

He found the night icy and wet, and did not mind a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, Prinzenhasserin! I enjoyed writing it enormously ❤


End file.
